Bittersweet
by Pale Treasures
Summary: Anna Karenina 2012. As Anna "Annie" Alexeyevna Karenina prepares to debut in society, she allows herself to ponder on her past, the biological parents she never knew and what the future has in store for her. One-shot.


**Bittersweet**

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything recognizable, Leo Tolstoy and Joe Wright do.

**Summary**: As Anna "Annie" Alexeya Karenina prepares to debut in society, she allows herself to ponder on her past, the biological parents she never knew and what the future has in store for her. One-shot.

**Author's Note: **_This has become a regular AN of mine, but English isn't my first language, and since I hardly write in English anymore, expect some embarrassing mistakes and odd flow. Regardless, I sincerely hope you enjoy it and, since this consists mostly of Annie's thoughts, that it isn't too boring._

**Author's Note #2:** _I'm not sure whether this was possible at the time, and I admit I didn't do any research, but, since Annie stayed under Alexei Karenin's care, I'm writing her as having been raised by him as his daughter and bearing his names. If this is inaccurate, well... let's just pretend it was possible for the story's sake! ;) Also, I changed her nickname from Anya, as per the movie version, to Annie, the one used in the book. I just like it better._

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Her debutante ball would be held the following day. She could barely believe it. After seeing friend after friend go through theirs, fluttering nervously but triumphantly in the direction of something she felt more monumental and life-changing than it probably was, it was difficult not to feel she would have to do as well as them, if not better. They had surfaced unscathed on the other side of life, one she had only heard mentioned, albeit unceasingly, some of them married by now, some thriving in their new marriageable, fashionable condition. Sometimes, she wondered whether she had truly been meant for that sort of life – although, she was aware that there was hardly anything else out there for someone like her. Now, the indecision stung with particular acuteness. The excitement she was supposed to be feeling was a mere empty, silent hole in her chest. Nothing reverberated. Nothing spoke to her. A sense of purpose, doing a job well done, was the only thing that throbbed faintly within, something fiercely and coldly logical. Nothing more.

And yet, it would be far easier if her life was the only thing at stake – at least, she liked to allow herself the illusion that such would ever be possible, to depend entirely on oneself. But it wasn't, either way – there was her father to consider. She knew that, despite these quiet, gauchely rebellious thoughts that would surely appal him, it would crush her to disappoint him or grieve him. He did not deserve it. She was aware she owed everything, every minute detail that had shaped how her life had gone, every moment of privilege, to him. And she acknowledged it every day. It would be hard not to, when, besides feeling a sense of debt to the man who had become her saviour since her birth, she also sincerely loved him.

She would not have chosen anything else for her. Yet, the moment all but compelled her to remember those who had truly given her life. She had thought about them before; faceless memories sprinkled unevenly along the course of her existence. She had thought about them with both detachment and yearning curiosity, with frosty judgement and incomprehension. She had wondered how her life would have been like if they had raised her, if she had found something to admire in them. She never dwelled on that for very long, for truth be told she found the effort quite impossible. She did not truly miss them; she did not really wish they had raised her or made the small decisions that come with bringing up and overseeing a child's education. Papa had done well for her. He only wanted the very best for her and he had given her just that, always, she knew it. It would be unjust to scorn his gifts by wondering how life might have been like with somebody else.

So, more often than not, she didn't think. But sometimes, like now, that she was in the threshold of something she did not quite understand but sensed would change her life, she couldn't help it. So little had happened in her life that, in a moment of ultimate contemplation before the plunge, she had to go back and rescue every memory, every eventful occasion that she couldn't personally recall but knew had happened. She felt it made her more like everybody else. And, as much as it unsettled her to admit it, sometimes she liked that, sometimes she needed it.

There were no portraits of her mother around the house, and no one dared speak of her. Only a few scornful whispers by the upper-classes, even after all this time, were offered up whenever she walked by. She knew enough about her, about her family, knew of her dying, an ignominious death, which papa tried to shield her from whenever he could. It was a strange thing, for someone to feel that their whole lives were perceived as the shadow of someone else's. It mattered not that they had nothing in common, that they had barely overlapped; that was how people saw it. Her, Annie's, every breath, every step, every glance, was scrutinized eagerly in search for a flaw. Her existence mirrored that of her mother's. She was not free to be herself; the only reality she had ever known was to be seen as the indistinct vessel that carried within it a foreign soul, a foreign manner. She knew she was, deep down, nothing other than herself, but it was a quiet, unshared knowledge. No one cared about that; she was only a matter of interest due to the expectation that her true nature would soon burst free and she would shame herself like her mother. The apple didn't fall far from the tree, she could imagine them saying. She provided entertainment. Only inside her house was she free.

She often saw their probing eyes, searching for similarities between herself and her fallen namesake. But she was a naturally contemplative person, not vivacious like her – like they said her to have been, anyway. Other than that, she couldn't imagine what they could have had in common. Even papa sometimes stared at her with something akin to melancholy, and it led her to wonder whether there were more resemblances between them than she'd imagined. She did not want to distress him by bearing a face that brought him bad memories. But those sorts of moments were often fleeting, and she had never heard a word of reproach from papa because of her lineage. Though, knowing him as she did, she thought that sometimes he held himself back from warning her.

It would be easy to dislike her mother and repel her memory because of this. She did not hate her, but she felt detached from her existence, detached from all she had been. Sometimes, she resented her a little, not out of jealousy, but because of the havoc she had wrought into her life, and continued to wreak, even dead. But at others, secretly, she wished she could see how she had looked like, and felt a trembling, childlike longing for her presence and guidance.

If her life had been different, besides having her mother, her name would have been Anna Vronskaya. She knew even less about her real father. She was even less curious. She knew he had gone off to fight in the Orthodox Serbian revolt against the Turks shortly after her mother's death. He had returned unscathed, but not easy in his mind, with his soul turned farther away from anything earthly. The energy for debauchery had departed him; drink was his constant companion, and he died less than six months after his return. Or so she had heard. Her father had, after much deliberation, as he had himself admitted, chosen to tell her about Count Vronsky's fate, and related the story rather gravely to her. She knew he was trying to impart something to her. She was about eight years old then. They had never spoken of him again.

He had struck her even then as a weak man. Perhaps it was unfair to judge. She knew nothing about him; nothing about his thoughts, about his love for her, if there had been any, only what his actions told her. And they spoke of a feeble, untrustworthy character. Perhaps she too closely resembled the father who had raised her. Perhaps she had inherited something inflexible from she knew not who, and which was not immediately visible to the naked eye in her retiring, silent, graceful form. She could muster no respect for him, and his recollection hardly ever haunted her. She felt that it would wound her self-respect to pine for someone like him. This was too much, her father would tell her, if he knew. He would respect and approve her general sentiments on the subject, but warn her against pride. But she was not as pious or as strong-willed as her father. She could not go without her most intimate thoughts, the only thing she felt was wholly hers. She would not give them up, not even to please him.

Could Seryozha understand her, if she decided to share this with him? She did not think of herself as lonely, but it was only when the scale of her history dawned on her that she felt she would suffocate under the weight of her legacy. Seryozha had known their mother, had spoken to her, had loved her. He was privy, to this day, to something forever beyond her reach. He shared part of what she was made of, and yet the other half of his life was unimaginably different, more colourful, more frightening, more complete, somehow. But he had been a little boy, then – had he decided to forget, tried to, like she did? They never ventured close to such a topic whenever they talked. And she wondered if she should make such an attempt – it scared her to fail and to incur her sweet brother's wrath, in spite of knowing she could talk freely with him about anything.

Now, Seryozha was all grown up. He was happy with his wife, and had two little girls she doted on. He was successful in his career and respected – not to say loved – by all. The past had not cursed him. Her faith in the world would have dwindled otherwise. Would she be spared as well? The future seemed something unfathomable, dark and deep, made only of echoes and fleeting silhouettes. It would do her no good to wonder yet. She could see nothing.

A trivial concern broke through the maze of her thoughts; she did not feel like she had practiced her dancing enough. Would she make a fool of herself? Would she finally give people what they had been waiting for? She bit her lip, automatically straightening her dress. It was pink, of a smooth, heavy silk, and a somewhat childish cut still, but such styles soothed papa and she did not object to wearing them inside to make him happy. She did not much care for clothes, in any case.

It was peculiar, that her future hung on how well she looked tomorrow, how prettily she danced and moved and talked, on how she batted her eyelashes in all the right moments, and stuck to decorum the rest of the time. The mammoth scope of it all crushed her. Could love truly depend on such pretences? Could it be born because of them? It seemed unlikely to her, deep down, in spite of her lack of knowledge.

She could not help but wonder whether she would find a husband after tomorrow. She had never been sure whether she wanted one, before. But now, it seemed a faintly enticing idea, an unmistakable sign of growing up. As long as it was for love. Love was indivisible from marriage for her, even unaccustomed to romantic thoughts as she was. What else could be the cause for happiness in married life? Children, it seemed to her, would bring a different sort of joy.

She could picture herself in love – not with great clarity, but she could. Despite the novels she'd read – most of them without her father knowing – she hadn't a clear notion of what people said to each other at such times, how they acted after everything was different. It seemed to her a colossal change – like you lost a part of yourself, or became a different person altogether. She both feared and looked forward to such a change. She would no longer be a little girl – her fears would be no longer her own. It seemed intoxicating, the idea that she might be able to share her fears with another. Become lighter. Love, she thought, was not about becoming more complete – it was about losing half of you, but gaining a number of advantages from it.

Would the faceless man that would one day come to claim her as his love feel liberated by the feeling? Would he _want_ to lose himself, to give over to her a part of him, forever? A vague, unfamiliar headiness came over her. Like slamming a door shut suddenly, she cut short the thread of thought, frightened of the way it excited her, frightened that it could go wrong.

The night had fallen without her noticing it. She stood up and smoothed out her dress, the shadows in the room engulfing her. The darkness swallowed her shadow and painted only gloom against the opposite wall. Slowly, she walked out of the room, her lone steps clicking somewhat desolately along the halls. She stopped outside her father's study and knocked. A second later, she received a reply to come in.

She pushed the door open a crack and poked her head in with a smile. "May I come in, papa?"

Alexei Karenin smiled back at her and pushed away from the desk. "Of course."

She made her way inside the well-lit room, and felt warm and reassured inside it. It felt like no harm could come to her, here. She approached the desk and, delicately, placed a kiss on the top of her father's head. His hair was fully snow white now, thinner, his baldness more pronounced. She momentarily forgot her insecurities and felt the urge to protect him instead.

"What are you doing up? And still dressed? Why didn't Katenka get you ready for bed yet?"

"I sent her away. Don't be angry, papa. I will call her back now."

He turned in his seat to face her properly. "Tomorrow is a big day. You should be resting."

She smiled nervously, a lurch of sickness turning her stomach. "I'll go to bed soon, papa. I just wanted to say good-night first."

He smiled. "And now it's time for bed. Go on."

"You go to bed soon, too, papa. It's late. You mustn't overwork yourself." She leaned down to kiss him once more.

He took her hand in his and patted it. "I will, my lamb. Now, off you go." He patted her hand again with greater resolution, a sign of dismissal not to be contested, and she went from the room.

Tomorrow, she remembered as she made her way back to her room, she would see Seryozha again. She missed him so – she hardly ever saw him now that he had found a post in Moscow. He would bring Masha and her two little nieces with him, and they would finally laugh and talk once more. Seryozha was something akin to a guardian angel, the only person who could make her feel safer than papa. Seeing him again seemed the best thing about the whole ball business.

When she was about to cross the threshold of her room again, she already felt like someone else. Something, whatever it was, awaited her. It would come regardless of her performance, regardless of any petty details. It didn't matter whether she was ready. Life would not always be like this. This would be the last day of familiarity, of life as she knew it. And the only thing, the last thing Annie could wonder about was whether what was to come would be good or bad.


End file.
